


Safe and Sound

by hrelics9



Series: Hunger Games AU [2]
Category: Hunger Games - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV), Teen Wolf-Hunger Games Crossover
Genre: AU-Hunger Games, Angst, Dark, F/M, Gore, Human-AU, Kind of Happy ending?, M/M, Sequal, Some Fluff, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hrelics9/pseuds/hrelics9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't suppose to happen. They'd been good, they'd taken their turn. They weren't suppose to be back in the Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sun is Going Down

This is the sequel to Come Away to The Darkness.Well, here we go! Happy Hunger Games. Let me know what you guys think! :) **  
**

**Safe and Sound**

The morning light colors the Red Woods in warm purple tones. Thick, white pollen balls suspend in mid-air, sparkling in the sunrays, giving a warm feeling just this side of ethereal. The air is crisper than most winder days, contrasting with the warmth of the forest. Everything is still. It’s a different kind of stillness, the Red Woods give. Wide and strong, like warm summer nights, holding safety, holding freedom.  It makes him think of whisky eyes more than anything now.

A cold breeze flutters around the thick trees today, cold enough that only a few lumber runs are scheduled in the late morning, just before the day is at its warmest. Even then, the layer of frost is still thick in the shadows, crunching under heavy footsteps, satisfying. His Dad got the first shift and dragged him and Laura out with him. Something about not letting his kids gets lazy just because they don’t have to work for a roof over their head anymore.

It doesn’t apply to Nate though because he’s getting _married._

Laura protests loudly every morning how unfair that is. She just wants to enjoy the leisure life.

He doesn’t mind though, the Red Woods are his home just as much as the building he sleeps in. Lately it’s been his only real escape anyway. The tight cold pit in his stomach isn’t something he can completely ignore even in the woods though. But for a moment, he can pretend it’s not there and when it gets to be too much, he can just grip the smooth handle of his Dad’s axe and swing away until it bleeds out into the trees and falls with an earth shattering thud.

It still comes back though, at night, when he’s alone and the winds sound too much like threating whispers in his ear. Some nights he doesn’t get any sleep.

Today though, today that cold pit isn’t as heavy as normal.

Laura is jogging ahead, axe slug over her back and laughter traveling with the breeze. She’s got extra energy for some reason, talking loud and scarring off the non-threatening wildlife. She keeps rushing forward to talk with a few of Dad’s friends in old lumber tracker. It doesn’t take her long to come spinning back and knock into his side, grinning wide, her eyes bright and clear.

This time around she slings an arm over his shoulders and pulls him down into a head lock.

“Baby bro! What’s with the sour face?” she’s shouting in his ear on purpose, he just knows it.

He stops abruptly, yanking his head out from under her arms and nearly tumbling to the ground when Laura crashes into him, unbalanced. Their axes catch and they tumble down to the frost bitten earth anyway.

The cold pit in his stomach bursts with warmth that rushes out his throat in deep giggles. Laura presses heavy on his side snickering and failing to get up. It’s probably because he keeps pulling her back down so he can stand first.

“Derek! Laura!” their Dad’s voice is loud, but there’s amusement in it. They should probably stop fooling around though.

It takes them about an hour to get deep into the forest where their lumber permits actually allow them to cut. Derek’s instructed to take Laura and pick out the good trees and start in on them with the axes, just the basic starting cut. They go about doing so, slower than normal though. It’s good work to take off the chill. The axe is heavy in his hand, a comforting heavy. The smooth handle having the slightest indents from being used so much. Derek’s been using the same axe since he was thirteen.

“So,” Laura huffs out, finally putting down her own axe, “you nervous for tonight?”

Right, tonight. It’s a big night. Derek can’t really lie, he is really _fucking_ nervous. He hates that Laura always wants to talk about everything, get all the feelings out in the open and hit the problem on a dead run. Why can’t he just linger behind for a little while longer?

“Derek.”

Derek sighs, stopping mid swing and hunches down to the ground, giving his knees a good stretch. He doesn’t know why Laura also wants to hear what Derek is feeling, even when she already knows what he is.

“Der-”

“- _yes_! Ok, of course I’m fucking nervous.” He bites out. The cold pit is back, bigger than ever and he doesn’t really know who he is trying to trick, his family or himself, that maybe everything would just go away and leave him alone. He swallows thickly.

He doesn’t want to be out in the woods anymore. He wants to be curled up on his bed, phone pressed to his ear listening to the jittery voice in the receiver.

Laura frowns and kneels down next to him. Her hand is running through his hair faster than he can blink back the burning in his eyes.

“Its gunna be ok, don’t worry.” She whispers in the stillness. The Red Woods seem to glow with her words, wrapping him in a strong comfort.

All he can think about is the fragile stillness in the woods of District Twelve.  How cold and crisp and breakable it is compared to his own woods. He grips his axe and stands swiftly,

“Come on,” he’s feeling dead inside, “let’s finish the shift.”

And go home to the terrible horror that is tonight. Because tonight the Capitol announces the twist in the Quarter Quell. Fuck, Derek hates that the Quell games is the one right after his own. Nothing is going to ease the coldness in him, because despite what Laura thinks, it won’t be alright. Derek knows it, he’s been _told_ it.

_“-You wouldn’t want-,”_

Derek shakes the voice from his head, no. Just no, he is not going to go there, not yet. Not when he doesn’t have too.

So he stomps off on the frost and keeps hacking at the Red Woods.

They mark off enough for the next shift to finish before heading back to look for their shift group. Their Dad’s got three large Red Woods chained up to the tractor and a forth nearly down. They brought the gas chainsaw today and the noise is loud and hurts Derek’s ears, he didn’t grab headphones. Laura bounds up to their Father though and waves her arms around a bit before getting a quick nod from him. She’s running back to him in seconds and dragging him away from the group, back towards the house.

They are done for the day and the hike back to the lumber yard will be a good two hours.

Two hours in the stillness and Laura’s guiltily eyes.

Derek tries to district himself by counting his steps, but he just feels OCD after a while. Laura is warm next to him and he pretends that his own heartbeat is hers, just to focus on something, anything other than the dark bubble growing in his head.

_“-You wouldn’t want anything bad-”_

“Derek!” Laura shouts, but too late, Derek’s foot catches on the unseen root and Derek takes a hard fall.

Laura’s trying her best not to laugh at him, but a giggle escapes her mouth. At least she _tried_ this time. Derek sighs and sits up and hunches his shoulders. Laura’s still giggling when she kneels down next to him, but her hand is gentle on the back of his neck.

“Ok, kiddo,” he hates when she calls him that, “tell your big sister what’s up.”

Derek glares down the path in front of them and the silence stretches long. Laura can wait forever. He hates that about her too.

Except, he kind of loves it.

_“-You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to Mr. Stilinski.”_

Derek sighs again and pushes his palms into his eyes. Maybe if he pushed hard enough they’d pop and he wouldn’t have to worry about crying in front of anyone ever again. His chest is tight and Laura’s voice sounds far away. He wonders if this is what it feels like, to have a panic attack. Except all of a sudden, he’s not in the woods anymore and Laura’s hand isn’t warm on his neck.  

Instead he’s alone, in his large, cold room, staring at the back of the surprisingly small shoulders of President Deucalion.

_“Mr. Hale,” he says, “we have a few things to discuss before the Victor’s tour.”_

Derek’s lungs aren’t working, and everything around him is dark around the edges, just President Deucalion in focus, the only thing in focus. He hates with everything he has left.

_“It’s been brought to my attention, that a few wonderful citizens of Panem have mistaken your….defiance, as an act of something else. Something that seems to be motivating, captivating.”_

There’s a buzzing in Derek’s ears too, quiet and high, just enough to set him off his edge.

“I _would like to take this opportunity to remind you that if you are planning on encouraging this….agitation, things will get bad. Very bad, Mr. Hale.”_

He’s feeling dizzy even though he’s sitting down.

_“We wouldn’t want to put you in an awkward position, Mr. Hale, but there is order to be maintained. You understand, I’m sure, just as sure as I am of the fact that you didn’t go into the Games with a rebellion in mind.”_

Silent, everything is just silent and Derek can’t see President Deucalion anymore. He can’t see anything.

“ _And in case, I am wrong, I would like to hope that you wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to Mr. Stilinski-”_

 _“_ Derek!” Laura’s panicked voice breaks through the darkness in his vision and suddenly he’s back in the woods, chest tight and his ass freezing on the frosty ground. There’s tears on his face, he can feel them drying in the chilled air. Laura’s good enough of a sister not to mention them though. She grips his neck tight and rubs circles over his chest, willing his lungs to work.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, “holy shit, Derek, what-”

“-Panic attack-” Derek huffs out. His vision is coming back.

“Oh god, I am so sorry, Der. I probably set it off.” Laura hauls him to his feet and gathers him close, arm around his shoulders, like she used to when they were younger and he’d scrap his knees up running after Dad in the backyard. Except now he’s taller than her and much bigger, their walk is a little lopsided and awkward, but he feels better as she chatters away. Step by step, the panic fades and the only thing he can feel is the ache that lingers.

By the time they get back to the lumber yard, Laura’s walking a little bit ahead of him and his lungs are working again. The nerves in his stomach don’t stop though and he doesn’t even want to think about chancing the lunch his Mom is making at home.

They clean and sharpen their axes, change into less padded clothing and walk the short dirt road back to their mansion of a house. Laura’s perceptive enough to pick up on the look Derek gives her as they walk through the door. No mention of his panic attack, not to Mom at least. She looks annoyed by keeping this secret, but she nods and wonders off to find Cora. Probably to tell her just what she was sworn to secrecy.

He rinses his sap covered hands in the bathroom and ruffles the saw dust that always finds itself a way to his hair. He kicks his boots off and throws the light jacket to the floor all in one smooth movement. He grabs the phone and flops down on his wide mattress and stares. Lately, he’s been afraid that he won’t pick up when he calls. That somehow, Derek has been pushing the rebellion rumors; that President Deucalion has made horrible, terrible things come true.

He dials the number and breathes heavy into the receiver. Each ring is one step closer to another panic attack. Four, five, six, seven, it’s getting to too many rings. Derek’s mind starts to race, why isn’t anyone picking up. Something’s happened, something’s-

“-Hello?”

Air rushes into his lungs and Derek feels lightheaded with relief.

“ _Stiles._ ”

There’s a happy intake of breath and Derek can see Stiles’s amber eyes brighten up.

“Hey, Derek.” He can feel the warmth of the smile and everything doesn’t seem too bad.

“I just wanted to catch you before…well, you know. Before tonight.”

Stiles’s swallow is loud over the phone, “yeah…it’ll be ok, right? I mean….how more messed up can they get?”

Derek tenses, willing Stiles not to go into a rant about the Capitol over the phone. They could be _listening_.

“Stiles,” Derek blurts, “I’ll come by tomorrow.” He knows he sounds panicky, but he has to see Stiles after tonight. He has too. No matter what the outcome is.

“Yeah,” Stiles sounds as if he’s drifted off into fantasy land, “that’d be nice. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Derek nods even though Stiles can’t see it. For the past six weeks the trains to District Twelve have been postponed due to sever snow storms, he hopes Stiles is being safe.

“You guys doing ok?”

Stiles hums happily in his ear and starts going off about Scott’s stupid, but hilarious, mistake during hunting that morning. Derek just goes along with him, encouraging Stiles he’s still listening in the right places. They talk for an hour before it gets too heavy on Derek’s heart and he mumbles an excuse to get off. Stiles sounds disappointed, but Derek promises to call after the Quarter Quell announcements.

The thing about tonight is that the new tributes could be picked. No one ever knows. The Quarter Quell is announced five months before the normal games. Sometimes the twist doesn’t affect the reaping process, sometimes it does and the tributes are picked on the same day as the twist announcements.

Derek can guess which is going to happen tonight and he’ll bet anyone he’s right.

The afternoon seems to fly by and Derek is soon sitting so tensely in front of the TV he’s shaking. Beside him Laura curls close and Cora snuggles down on his other side. Their dinners forgotten on the coffee table. Nate and Jacob are curled together in the love seat and their Mom is standing unhappily behind the couch, glaring the TV down.

Dad’s on the phone with Uncle Peter when the announcements start.

Derek hopes Stiles is curled up with Scott and Allison on his own couch.

It starts off the same every year, recaps of the previous games, and the excitement for the ‘special’ games. The announcer hypes it up, makes it sound glorious and wonderful. Not that he’s fooling anyone in the Districts. It takes half an hour of pre-game and sick ‘strategy’ talk before the important part comes.

Laura and Cora slip their hands in with Derek’s and hold on tight to him.

“-and the big question everyone is dying to know,” the announcer chuckles at his own pun and Derek growls low in his throat, “is just what the Quarter Quell twist is going to be this year!”

“-Just fucking spit it out-,” Derek snaps at the TV and his Mom pets his neck softy.

“-it seems we have more than one interesting surprise this year,” the announcer continues and Derek is shaking so hard, “-lets see,” he fiddles around with a folded up paper on screen and flats it out, “Ohh, interesting, what fun!”

Cora winces next to him and Derek tries to lighten his grip.

“Ah, ok, twist number one people of Panem,” the stupid blue haired fucker pauses and smiles mischievously at the camera, “is no stand ins this year!” there’s a chorus of ‘aws’ from the audience.

Normally, when someone does volunteer over a chosen tribute, like Derek had, it means a good heart touching story for the audience.

“Yes, yes, it is very dearing to see such bravery and love, but don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll love number two! Which, yes here it is….three tributes from each District will be chosen!”

“Three!” Derek shoots out of his seat, rage consuming him. He’s barely keeping himself from throwing his plate at the TV. The living room is tense and his Dad comes and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“-yes, won’t that be exciting. And oh, the last twist is a riot people, yes yes,” the anticipation is wafting out from the camera and intoxicating Derek, “one of the three tributes will be a previous victor!”

The audience roars in applause.

“No….” Derek’s rage is whisked out of him and he falls down into the couch, numb.

Stiles….Stiles will get picked for the Quarter Quell. It’s only him and Deaton as victors for District Twelve. One guess says President Deucalion is a lying fucker.

No, this wasn’t fair. He’s been good. He hasn’t done anything! He’s stayed out of the public’s eye, he’s been _good._ The rage comes back just as fast and Derek doesn’t care if he’s being childish or rash. He throws his gorgeous crystal plate right into the screen. It’s not satisfying at all. His siblings jump and his Mom calls after him, but Derek just rips the phone from his Dad’s hand, hangs up on Uncle Peter and runs out the door.

It’s freezing in the evening light, but Derek doesn’t care, he’s too hot blooded with rage. It takes him all of ten minutes to run to the train station. He rattles on the glass of the ticket booth and throws a wad of cash and biting out that he doesn’t give a shit if there are no trains to District Twelve, he better be on something in the next five minutes that will get him there.

The peace keepers look alarmed, but he’s over paid and money is powerful in District Seven.

He’s on a train in less than ten minutes and barreling his way to District Twelve in the heavy snow fall of the mountains. It’s not until he’s sitting in the dark on the window car that his guilt seeps in. His phone is still in his hand, and he hopes it still works on the train. He dials home and his Mom picks up, mad as fuck and screams at him for running off.

He’s frustrated and pissed and so helpless that he doesn’t even try to hide the tears from his voice. He mumbles apologies over and over and tells her he’ll be in District Twelve by sunrise and that he just had to get out. That he just has to get to Stiles, because he’ll be chosen, he’ll need Derek.

He hangs up with a burn in his throat and eyes and sits in the dark, staring out at the passing trees until the sun starts to creep up and the train starts to slow. He’s gripping his phone tightly, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He’s freezing when he steps off the train. More cold than he’s ever been in his life. The snow is thick and still coming down, but it doesn’t matter. That’s not going to stop him from getting to Stiles. He runs as fast as he can through the white fluff and just as his hands feel like they are about to fall off, the large house jumps out from the foggy morning. Derek’s pounding on the door, not really caring if anyone is sleeping or not, he just has to get in.

The cold air is hurting his lungs and his fatigue is catching up with him. He just leans heavily against the door, breathing hard. No ones answering. He feels tears gathering again and then the doorknob twists and the door yanks open, he stumbles a bit.

Stiles is staring wide eyed and hair longer than ever, messed in a birds nest and dressed in the warmest looking sweats and Haley.

“Derek?” his voice is soft and rough and full of confusion.

Derek just pushes on in and into Stiles, pulling him close and holding too tightly, burying his face into his shoulder. Stiles is frozen, arms unsure what to do, “Stiles, I’m so sorry, _fuck_ …Stiles,” Derek mumbles over and over and Stiles’s thin arms are hanging on tight to him. Running up his back and shaking, not sure were to grab onto.

There’s nothing else for Derek to do but cling and just move with Stiles as he shuts the cold from the house and moves them into the dark living room. Derek hates everything in the house, all bought by the capitol, a gift, one that Stiles won’t even be able to use now. They are only supposed to play in the games one time, that’s the rule, the fairness.

But in times of war, no one plays fair and Deucalion has taken Derek’s defiance in the last games as an act of war.

“Stiles-” he finally manages in a composed tone.

“-it’s ok,” Stiles cuts him off and pulls back enough to nudge Derek’s head with his own.

“He’s doing it on purpose, he’s targeting you.”

“Actually,” a guilty look crosses Stiles’s face, “I think he’s targeting _you_.”

Take away the people he loves; make him suffer the worst kind of loss. Derek never should have gone into the games with such anger, with such hate for the capitol, because now the consciences are raining down on all of Panem.

“Fuck, Stiles, three. _Three_ tributes.”

Stiles’s eyes are sad and he doesn’t say anything, he just leans against Derek and they sit in silence. He’s never felt more helpless in his life. He’s the direct reason for the harsh twists in the Quell. He’s the reason others are going to suffer.  The capitol will make a martyr out of him; show Panem what happens to those with their own thoughts. There’s a chill that Derek can’t rid, even with Stiles curled around him and when the sun starts to drift in through the windows, it doesn’t fade away.

 

 

****

Please comment, feed back motiviates me more than anything. Ha, hope you like the first short chapter! lol Thanks for reading guys!


	2. I Remeber You Said, Don't Leave Me Here Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holyyyyyy shit you guys. Sorry it's been forever!!! I've had a rough year-ish and honestly I've really fallen away from Teen Wolf since the last few seasons. However, I hate leaving things unfinished and I am totally still in love with Sterek, so I promise I'll try to keep the updates way way shorter now that things are going better. Thanks so much for reading you guys and for sticking with me. :) I have missed this fandom quite a bit so I think I'm gunna ease my way back in, well sort of. Just in the actual fan-fiction side. I know there's a ton of new characters, but I haven't watched the show since Stiles had his little possession problem. So Kira is the only new character you'll be seeing in my fics. Anyway, thanks so much you guys!

 

 ***

 

Derek stays with Stiles for three days, getting an angry phone call every morning from his mom. Even her wrath won’t draw him away from Stiles, who looks like he’s about to keel over. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and even though he always mumbles he’s fine, Derek can see the anxiety and the fear building behind his eyes. It’s like meeting him all over again. Derek will never forget that first day of training they had in the games. Stiles stood out right from the start, all pale and freckles, eyes brighter than any Derek has seen. He tried so hard to hide his fear then too. It made the protector in Derek surface and all he wants to do now is bully Stiles into a safe corner and never let him go. But the capitol won’t let that happen and there’s only one thing for Derek to do.

Stiles is out cold on the bed, blankets and sheets down around his waist, exposing his mole dotted back. Derek doesn’t really want to wake him, but they have things to discuss and to even have a slight chance of privacy, they have to hop the fence and hike deep into the forest. He sits for just a moment, boring the details of Stiles muscles into his mind, the dip in his shoulder blades, the small scars on his back from the games. Even the way his hair is messed to one side, slightly shinny with grease. He soothes goose bumps on Stiles back with a soft kiss and coaxes Stiles out of slumber with warm hands. Derek hates waking him, there’s always that moment, just for a second, where Stiles is completely content and safe. His eyes soft and warm, not a worry to them, but it’s gone with a blink and the fear comes flooding back.

“Hey.”

Stiles gives him a sleepy smile, “hey.”

“Wanna go hunting today?”

Stiles stretches lazily, making small moans in the back of his throat, “sure” he mumbles out eventually and lays motionless after his body has strained as much as it can.

Derek just nods and places one last kiss between Stiles’s shoulder blades before the lump in his throat is too much to swallow. Stiles is up and ready in a few minutes, hopping around the hallway with one boot unlaced. He seems in a better mood, laugh genuine for the first time since the quell announcements. And even though it’s not Derek that causes the laugh, it’s still good to hear. They have to wait for Scott to splash cold water on his face and down a protein bar before heading out. When they finally do, it’s with soft steps to avoid waking John and Melissa.

Their usual spot in the fence is easy for Derek to get to now, his larger bulk finally graceful enough to slip through the fence with speed like Scott and Stiles’s limber bodies. He has to admit, all the sneaking around he’s been doing these past months has probably better prepared him for the Quell. The forest is quiet, like always, still in a different way than his red woods. He’s less at peace; the frailness of the trees sparks an eerie warning in his stomach. Scott and Stiles run ahead silently though, snickers carrying on the wind in soft ghosts every so often. Scott hunts down a few rabbits, quick with his arrows and they wonder down to the small lake before lighting up a fire. Normally, they wouldn’t risk the smoke, but something in Stiles’s smile is more daring than normal. It makes Derek nervous. It makes him afraid. Scott rambles for a while, about Allison, about the coal mines, about whispers of changes in the air. Derek shifts around nervously and scans the forest. There’s nothing but silence though, the Capitol unsuspecting. Eventually, Scott and Stiles get restless and they are up and traveling deeper into the forest then they normally go. It’s the same routine, hunt down as much as they can carry and hike back to the town.

It takes them until mid afternoon to get back. And when they do straight up from the ground, batting dust off their clothes, there’s a silence that isn’t normal in the town and it sends Derek’s stomach into knots. By the grim lines on Stiles and Scott’s faces, they feel it too. They go the back way to Stiles’s old home and stash their hunt for the day in the barely working freezer around the back of the house. They don’t see a soul the whole way. Even as they get to the victor’s village, clear as day, almost all of District 12 is there, and still no sound. The humming of hovercrafts reaches Derek’s ears as they push their way through the crowd. Stiles winds back and forth ahead of him until he reaches John, who’s in uniform and grim looking. Three hovercrafts touch down, dark and large in the winter sun. There are too many guns on them for it to be a normal visit and Derek will bet there’s no tribute wardrobe team sitting inside.

“Dad.” Stiles mutters, but a quick grip on his arm cuts him off.

The hovercrafts down shut off, but they do power down and the slow lowering of the back cargo doors is spiking the crowd’s anxiety. Before the doors even touch the ground, a loud pounding raises up and at least thirty peacekeepers come marching off. Guns are clipped tight to their waists, their backs, armor thicker and more sturdy looking.

There’s a few gasps in the crowd.

Allison appears from Derek’s right, going straight for Scott and latching onto his hand tightly. A large man steps off last, his helmet off and uniform slightly modified to identify his ranks. The groups of peacekeepers line up stiff and controlled behind him. There’s a long silence as every waits for something to happen. When nothing does, John moves, pushes his way to the front of the crowd. Stiles whimpers after him and Derek barely grabs his arm to keep him back. The crowd seems to ease a bit as John breaks out into the open, face set in his best authority expression. The knots in Derek’s stomach grow though the closer John gets. Everyone watches as John steps up to Mr. silent and barely utters a word before a crack raises up into the air.

John barely hits the ground before Stiles is cursing and running forward. The crowd gives out a shout and Derek is following Stiles, Scott close on his heal. He’s expecting Stiles to rush to his Dad’s side, but he bypasses him altogether and sends a wild punch, knocking the newcomer full force in the mouth. And really, Derek should have seen that coming. Stiles is on the ground in seconds, curled in a ball on his side and getting battered by a long metal stick. The rage in the peacekeepers’ eyes stops any thought of rebellion in Derek’s mind. Scott bypasses John as well and Derek doesn’t understand how stupid they are being. At least the beating Stiles was taking stops, but Scott gets a good crack across his face and is sprawled down next to Stiles. And before anything else happens, a gunshot breaks the shrieks and shouts. Scares everyone and everything into silence.

The man stands over Stiles, tall and malicious looking, gun pointed high at the sky.

“District 12,” his voice is cold and deep and Derek doesn’t dare move from John’s side to go to Stiles’s, “it has been brought to the President’s attention that this District has been lacking in sufficiency,” he looks down at John with disgust, “to bring production back to its peak, a new order is being installed,” meaning anything remotely illegal will be snuffed out, a tighter curfew, more laws, any form of freedom chased away.

Stiles chooses that moment to cough out a bloody laugh and Derek fears his heart is going to lurch out of his chest. The man snarls and yanks Stiles’s up by his collar, giving him another good smack across his face before throwing him back to the ground at the feet of the crowd. “Some of you have gotten too lax and let certain…generosity of the Capitol go to your heads. I am here to contain that,” contain the fire; contain the spark, the rebellion, “starting with this as a lesson. Anyone who speaks against authority will be considered conspirators against the Capitol. Out of the goodness of my heart,” the man sneers perfect white teeth at Stiles, “I will let this little episode off with a warning. Another outburst and there will be further punishment.”

The only sound is Stiles’s heavy breathing.

“Curfew is Seven o’clock. You are all have ten minutes to get to your homes.” He turns away and starts directing the groups of peacekeepers to their shifts.

It’s only when most of the crowd is gone and Mr. Hardass has moved on to the farthest hovercraft that Derek moves toward Stiles, pulling him up with as much gentleness as he can muster. Scott and John hover behind him and they make their way back to home. Melissa is barking orders the moment they get in the house. Stiles’s lip is busted open and bleeding. His eyes is nearly swollen shut and Derek knows there are blooming bruises on his torso just from the way he winces as he lowers himself onto the couch. John’s got a nice shiner on his left cheek and Scott’s pressing at his still bleeding nose, Allison keeping a cloth close.

Derek doesn’t know what to do. There’s a storm coming his way and he doesn’t have any shelter, not any more. He’ll be sent back to District 7 come morning, he knows it. So he crowds down next to Stiles as Melissa sets about tending to him. Once he’s sent back, he won’t be able to get out again, he knows it. Split them up, keep them alone, so the fear and the doubt can settle in and destroy them from the inside. Derek swallows and reaches out to Stiles with a shaky hand. Panem is about to get more difficult to survive.

**

Stiles is still bitching and poking at his bandages as he pulls on his sweat pants for bed. Melissa had informed them that Stiles was lucky, not even a bruised rib, just a lot of nasty bruises and cuts. That doesn’t stop Derek from screaming at Stiles an hour later after Stiles shared a few snarky comments about the new head peacekeeper. Derek can’t figure it out, can’t wrap his head around the absence of fear in Stiles. Doesn’t he get it, doesn’t he know. President Deulcaion will take everything he can, without hesitation. It scares Derek from even waking in the morning. And yet Stiles gets beaten in front of his whole District for nothing and he’s still raging and pushing.

He doesn’t want to fight with Stiles on his last chance to see him in a while, but Derek can’t let it go. If he can’t be in District 12 to keep Stiles from trouble, he has to know he won’t be killed for a stupid smartass quip.

They lay in the dark, back to back, not saying anything. Derek doesn’t know where to start, not without starting another argument. All he knows now and the past few hours is fear.

Eventually, it’s Stiles who breaks the silence.

“Hey Seven.” He says to Derek in a teasing whisper. It’s warm filled and caring and Derek just wants to curl up and give in. Give in to the fear, given in to the tears, given in to whatever is happening to them. Even if they don’t deserve it, he just wants to keep breathing, for a little while longer.

“Hey Twelve,” he manages back in a lighter tone then he thought he could muster.

There’s some grunts and pain filled whimpers as Stiles shifts around and plasters himself against Derek’s back, arms encircling his waist and holding tight.

“I can’t let them win, Der.”

Let them win? They always win. Derek wants to say it, but he can’t. He can’t because in the back of his mind he can remember when he felt the same. Before he stepped in for his brother, before he met Stiles. Before, when he thought he was invincible and that it couldn’t possibly get worse. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just slides his hand over Stiles’s and holds on tight.

“If we don’t fight back, things will just stay the same.” Stiles whispers.

“Stiles-”

“-what happened to you? When I met you, you were the one pushing back.”

A surge of anger rushes through him and he pulls away from Stiles, ignoring the pain gasp it draws from him.

“What happened to me?” he nearly shouts, keeping Stiles as arm’s length, “the games happened to me Stiles,” but he gets it. He knows that fire for a better life that’s burning in Stiles. He remembers the fearlessness he had just months ago. He swallows the anger in his throat and hates the hurt in Stiles’s wide eyes. He doesn’t know what to do, so he does what seems right. Derek pushes forward, gently laying Stiles down on his back, hovering over him. He thumbs over a bruise on Stiles’s chest and slides his hands up Stiles’s neck, cupping his jaw with as much tenderness as he can understand.

“You happened to me.” He whispers in the dark, nudging down and bumping his nose with Stiles’s. Derek can feel the embarrassment on his cheeks.

Stiles digs a hand into his hair and rubs Derek’s collarbone with a sad frown on, “I didn’t want to take away your bravery.” He whispers against Derek’s lips.

That’s not what Derek meant. It’s not what he wants Stiles to feel. But he’s still feeling lost so he just presses down, nipping at Stiles’s jaw, caressing everywhere he can. His bruised sides, the flat panels of his stomach, his jutting hipbones. He pulls Stiles up against him, winding his arms around the narrow waist that Derek can’t picture a life without the weight in his arms.He can lose himself in Stiles, just like this. Mole dotted skin soft under his lips, no matter how much bruising is on it. Stiles squirms uncomfortably under him, bringing his knees up around Derek’s waist, hands tugging at his hair. Derek goes, lips dragging over his chin, searching. He hasn’t kissed Stiles like this since the games, maybe not even. It’s slow, Stiles shuttering against him, opening up gentler then Derek can muster himself. He’s nipping and taking, faster than Stiles is, slower then he wants. And he wants so much. In the little time Derek fears, he wants as much as Stiles will let him. He can’t stop, a little too desperate for touch. Stiles is a good sport about it, spreads his thighs a little wider, let’s Derek’s hands grip tight. Heat grows in Derek’s stomach. He drinks in Stiles’s quiet moans. Thrusts slow, but strong to draw them out.

He gets his hands under Stiles’s night shirt enough to bunch it up, enough to run his hands down Stiles’s torso. Over and over, dipping lower, teasing until Stiles squirms a bit too much and the next moan out of him is too pained for Derek to enjoy. That’s how he takes Stiles though, just a bit too rough, just a bit too despite. Stiles doesn’t once murmur for to him to stop. He holds tight to his back, arches up against him, breath whispery and low, eyes glistening. He digs his nails into Derek’s back, legs wrapped tight around him, encouraging. And even though Derek knows there’s a sting keeping Stiles from pleasure, he comes anyway, fast and loud. It takes all of Derek’s will power not to break down and cry in helplessness. It’s only Stiles’s encouragement (“come on, it’s ok, I’ve got you.”) that he thrusts out of rhythm, rough and wild, and comes buried inside him.

He falls asleep on top of Stiles’s thin figure, face smashed into his jutting collarbone. Something settles in the haze of his slumber and it gathers strength with every stroke of Stiles’s hand through his hair.

**

It’s just as Derek knew, he’s being sent back to District Seven right away. There’s loud banging on the front door early, just as the sun is rising. A whole hoard of peacekeepers stands grimly in front of the steps. Derek’s barely got his shoes on and the usher him outside. Stiles doesn’t even get his jacket on, or his shirt buttoned all the way. Following them sleepily to the train station doesn’t curve Stiles bitter insults. A few of the peacekeepers make a start at him, but since the boss man isn’t around, they don’t do much more than ignore Stiles. They only get a moment together, having to fight to get into each others arms. Stiles grips his hair so tight it’s painfully.

“Don’t be stupid,” Derek grits out, curling his arms around Stiles thin waist, “don’t give them a reason.”

“They already have enough,” Stiles says and it curls a cold ball deep in Derek’s stomach.

The train’s already pulling up and the peacekeepers move to separate them. Derek pressed his lips hard to Stiles’s, hands trying to tell him things Derek can’t get out. He gets dragged away and thrown onto the train. The moment the door locks, the keepers leave the platform, leaving Stiles by himself in the cold. Seeing him there alone amongst the grey of District Twelve, shatters his heart. He looks every bit the rumors of the pathetic orphaned kids from the coal district. Roughed up, too thin, with ripped clothing that doesn’t fit them. There’s even a bit of coal dust smudged on Stiles’s face. It should be defeating too see, but the cold ball in Derek’s gut grows bigger, and as the train pulls out of the station and Stiles fades from sight, it bursts into a renewed hatred. Not the fear he felt all autumn, not the helplessness that he could rid last night. Just cold, numbing hatred.

_Don’t let them win._ Clear as day, Derek could almost hear it in Stiles’s voice. It was swimming in his whisky eyes. _Don’t let them win._

The only question was how? How do they do that?

**

The ride back takes longer then normal, probably President Deucalion’s idea, let Derek stew in his fear. But he doesn’t. He zones out instead. In fact, he doesn’t even realize the train is coming to a stop until he nearly falls out of his chair from the sudden stop. Derek doesn’t wait around, he gets off in a hurry, shoving his hands into his jacket. His fingers graze a crumbled up ball of paper. It’s fresh and smudged with coal, but Stiles’s hand writing is clear.

_Train when you can, Der. I’ll see you in a few months for the victory tour; I’ll call if I can. Don’t let them win._

_-Stiles_

There’s a huge heart scribbled around Stiles’s name, just lame enough to spark a laugh out of him. He’ll train, every day, for as long as he can. At least this way, he’ll be distracted enough from thinking of all the trouble Stiles is going to be getting into.

The walk to his home is short, and it’s not cold enough to snow like it is in Twelve, but his jacket smells of Stiles and smoke, so he keeps it wrapped around him. His new house looks daunting when it comes into view and he wants to crumble down, paranoid thoughts of bugs and listening devices hidden throughout the structure. How much is Deucalion watching? How often?

Derek can only grip the balled up paper. No one is home, the house eerily quiet. But it’s still early morning, Laura will be out with their Father on a shift, and Peter is no doubt down town, trailing after Talia and Cora with paranoid eyes. Derek doesn’t want to think about what his uncle is thinking. Another round in the games and Peter’s mind will break completely. His younger siblings should be in class as well. He steals a slice of bread, and peels off his clothes slowly as he climbs the stairs.

A long shower and then bed. He’ll rest one day, worry till he’s grey about Stiles for one day. Tomorrow, he’ll throw himself into training, he’ll harden back up. Stiles needs him to do so. Whoever is going with him in the games will need him to do so. The water’s cold so he hurriedly cleans himself and then falls into his own bed, missing Stiles’s warmth already. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep though. And he dreams of nothing for a change.

 **

“Derek.”

A moan escapes his lips.

“Derek.”

Normally, he’d wake, but he just wants to sleep forever. He’s so tired and he’ll see Stiles in the morning.

No…wait. It’s not Stiles.

“Derek, honey, come on get up.”

“Mom,” he mumbles, confusion settling in. She sounds worried.

She pats his shoulder, “come down stairs, quick.” And leaves quietly.

He dresses, rushing down the stairs as the static of the tv fills his ears. His whole family is gathered around the couch, staring grimly at the static on the screen. It crackles for a little while, and then a piercing tone is held for a few short seconds. There’s a cut out and President Deucalion is siting prim and proper. He’s dressed smartly, in a deep red suit and the ever present sunglasses sit high on his nose.

Derek sits on the arm of the couch, Laura’s hand curling over his silently.

“My dear Panem,” he begins with a gentle tone, dripping with a warning that only a few can probably hear, “recent events have caused a great misfortune to our wonderful nation. And in the wake of them, I have seen fit to protect every one of you from its hideous aftermath. Until it is safe for all citizens, the trains will be halted for the foreseeable future-,”

“-what about supplies?” Laura whispers, “most of the districts rely on outside resources.”

Derek bites his tongue. It’s a smart move on Deucalion’s part actually, cut the districts off just enough so they will be back in his debt.

“-this is a difficult time and we must stand together to ensure this great nation lives on. As such, I must inform you that the Victory Tour is cancelled as well,” Derek can hear the over whinny gasps and pouts from the Capital without the tv on. All it means to him is that he won’t be seeing Stiles any time soon, “to ensure the safety of your victors and the protection of the districts. We must remain strong, without one another we would fall into chaos and destruction. Panem today, Panem tomorrow-”

“-Panem forever.” Laura spits out next to him. Her knuckles are white she’s gripping his hand so hard. It keeps him grounded and from flying into a rage though, so he doesn’t pull away.

Stiles must be going crazy. Without the supply runs, Districts like Twelve will feel the worst of it. Tension is no doubt high there, and with the new peacekeepers, Derek can’t even imagine the rage Stiles is feeling.

The TV crackles again and goes dark for a second. It lights back up with text scrolling across the screen,

_All trains will be out of service. Please direct all questions to your local law informant. All trains will be out of service, Please-_

The TV clicked off and the sit in silence.

“Let’s eat,” his mother says and everyone is up and zombie walking to the table.

Derek barely touches his; he can’t bring himself to eat a lot when he knows Stiles will be starving for food a few weeks from now.

_“Eat ya dumbass, you need protein for those muscles.”_ He can hear him so clearly; almost see him sitting across the table in the empty chair.

How bad is it that he’s more sure of his subconscious version of Stiles then he is of anything else? Probably pretty bad since he’s relying on it to get him through till the games. Derek ignores the constant glances and worried stares he gets all through dinner. The only way he’ll make it through this is one day at a time. And to stay as much as he can out from under Deucalion’s view. Just keep his head down, train when he can. Get stronger than he is now. Don’t ignite any hatred; don’t fuel any opinions, just get by.

He can do that and maybe, just maybe, Stiles won’t be picked for the next games. If he’s really lucky, he himself and Peter won’t either.

 

 

 


	3. Just Close Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I wanted to get this up earlier, but I was in Chicago for two weeks. I have a chunk of time off next week so the next chapter will be up shortly. Thanks you guys for sticking with me! :)

 

 

It’s been months now. The cold has finally settled in over District Seven. The woods deep reds in the blue sunlight. Frost covers the ground every morning and grows back every night. The town is quiet now, even in midday. There’s not much else to do besides go to work and sleep. Since the train shut down, there’s only been one supply drop from the Capital. Most of it food, just basic rice and grain.

Derek can see it in people’s faces. The worry and the fear. Some of the poorer families are starting to look a little thin and Derek’s stomach rumbles more often than not. But he gets food every day, usually twice a day. And some of it is still flavorful and satisfying. At least that’s what Laura and Cora say. Everything just tastes like ash to him now. He lives and breathes training. Every morning, same thing. Sit ups and push-ups till his muscles feel weak and useless. Goes on his shifts in the woods, and gets Laura to cover for him as he goes deep into the woods and does target practice or a few hours, sometimes he runs to build up his endurance. At the end of the shift, he volunteers carrying back the heavy equipment and when the tractors die, he pulls the smallest logs behind him for as long as he can. With the few hours before dinner, he usually goes to the town library to read up on planets and survival techniques. And when it’s a quarter to Eight, goes home, eats, does a few core strengthening exercises and showers before falling to bed.

His nights are filled with dreams of Stiles. Sometimes they are good, just the two of them walking through an odd mix of forest, chatting and laughing. Other times they are sad, ones where he’s curled around Stiles’s thin body, just staring at the breath in his lungs. A few times Derek dreams of being inside Stiles, thrusting long and slow as Stiles writhes under him. Or of Stiles riding him, laughing with pleasure and thrusting his hips fast until Derek comes and wakes alone.

Most times, he can’t breathe through thick smoke and everything is dark. All he can hear is screaming and Stiles is just from his reach. It takes him forever to reach Stiles and when he does, he’s cold and bleeding. Still, dying on the ground. Derek always takes him in his arms and whatever Stiles is saying to him gets lost in Derek’s subconscious and tears. Most nights, Derek wakes with dread, but a refueled anger.

While he’s slowly losing his mind, his body is growing stronger. He’s twice the size he was at the time of the last games. He’s got bundles of energy and the only thing he’s tired of is how pathetic and dim the district looks. He hears Stiles while he’s awake more often than not now. Sees him sitting across from him at breakfast and dinner. Even after a head shake, Stiles’s ghostly body doesn’t disappearing back into Derek’s mind. He wonders more than once if it’s a side effect from that poison the Capital and injected in him last games.

There’s some winter holiday that most of Panem celebrates, something with winter solstice, Derek’s never really paid attention to what it really is. But the town is bristling about this morning. It doesn’t stop it from looking dingy and sad though. Just glosses over the worry. Everyone’s got shifts off for a few days, so Derek’s got too many down time hours. He should have taken a longer time doing his workout this morning.

Laura’s dragging him along to go downtown, Cora and Jacob in tow. Nate’s been gone lately as well, hiding out with his fiance. Derek rechecks that the list his mother had shoved in his pocket is still there. He’s too jittery to remember what is on it.

The city center has small twinkle lights up and the sidewalks are filled with excited people. All the shops are open, with discounted sale prices being advertised. It’s a little surprising to see. Derek can’t decide if it makes him happy that people can find a way to pretend everything is ok, or mad at the stupidity of it. Somewhere in a poorer district, people are being killed, rebellion is shifting, and fighting is happening. Derek hears snippets of it from the peacekeepers.

Whatever President Deucalion had planned was not working.

At least Cora and Laura seem pleased with the growing whispers of rebellion.

Derek can only think of how miserable Stiles must be.

The market is loud and happy. Derek sees Stiles staring at some fresh bread, hears him laugh after Cora nearly runs over a boy from her classes. Laura teases her endlessly while they gather food. A whole ham is heavy for them to take, so Derek holds it the whole time. By the time they finish gathering all the potatoes, greens, and a large pie that smells too sweet, their arms are bursting with food. They must have bought out half the supply. It’s only a little embarrassing, but Derek’s earned the money his family gets. He fought little kids for it. So he glares down the stares from the few that whisper as they walk past.

By the time they get back, it’s mid-day and their mother starts barking out orders to everyone. The kitchen fills fast of amazing aromas and Jacob keeps tormenting Cora with flour. It’s enough of a distraction that Derek can slip away and go out for a jog.

The red woods creak as he runs down the lumber path. There’s no trees falling, no loud echoing thud or voices yelling to watch out. The woods are completely calm for once. When he gets halfway down the lumber trail, he veers off to the right and picks up speed. Just a few miles in is a nice clearing. The sun beams cold rays down into the forest today. Lights up the forest floor and the air particles. When Derek reaches it, Stiles is already there waiting for him. He’s all glow-y today; a little more weight on him then Derek is used too.

“ _Hey lumber jack_.” Stiles smiles brightly at him, his eyes seem to flash gold at him.

Derek huffs and sits down on a large rock, wiping the sweat off his brow, “Stiles.” He says, even though he knows no one is really there.

 _“Lookin’ pretty good,_ ”

“Yeah” Derek huffs out again.

 _“It’s almost time._ ” Stiles says and when Derek looks up at him, he’s grey looking. Skinnier then Derek’s ever seen him, cheeks sunken in and eyes dull.

He blinks and Stiles is gone. He’s just alone in the woods, talking to himself.

He stretches and runs back to the house before he completely goes mad. Dinner is sure to be done by the time he rounds the bend and the house comes into view. He’s been gone a few hours. There’s a light lull and the house is pleasantly warm. Even inviting for once. But the moment he steps into the dining room and see his mother’s lips in a tight line, any warmth just disappears.

“Derek,” she says a little too loudly, “good you’re back; your father is right behind you?”

“Uh.” Is all he can manage before all the blood leaves his body.

President Deucalion steps out from the doorway, sunglasses hiding whatever dark depths hide in his eyes.

“Mr. Hale, you’re looking well.” It’s the same as always, the underlining tone of destruction and menace, “I was hoping to wish you a happy holiday before my trip back.”

His mom nearly shook with commands at him. Don’t’ fuck this up, don’t be rude. Don’t do anything stupid Derek.

_Don’t let them win._

Fuck, now is not the time Stiles.

“Alright.” He manages without a stutter. He follows Deucalion back into the study at the far end of the house, shoulders tight.

_How can someone that walks with a cane be so scary Derek?_

Derek barely manages to keep in his fake Stiles dialogue. At least he’s not appearing behind Deucalion’s shoulder.

“District Seven is doing very well, despite the hardship that has fallen on our nation,” Deucalion begins, looking out the window and back into the woods, “lumber, there’s always a need for it.”

Derek clears his throat, “Yes. Good thing there’s a lot of forest here.”

Deucalion chuckles, “yes, good indeed. I’ve been to every district this month,” Stiles, he’s been near Stiles. Derek tenses, “and I am quite happy that Seven is doing well. Just as you seem to be, Mr. Hale.”

The president turns slow to him with what Derek is guessing is supposed to be a kind smile. But it comes off more wolfish.

“You and your family seem to be adjusting quite well.”

“Uh,” shit, Derek can feel that panic settling in, “yeah, _yes_. It’s been easy, with the graciousness from the Capitol.”

When all else fails, kiss ass. At least that way Derek won’t get into so much trouble. Deucalion chuckles again, a little darker.

“Well, you’ve earned it. Unlike, some.”

Dread creeps up his back.

“There is something I need from you, Mr. Hale.”

“Alright.” Stiles would reprehend him for agreeing so fast.

“With the cancellation of the victory tour, many citizens of Panem have expressed their disdain for not getting more of our nation’s victors.”

“You’re re-instating the tour?”

“No, unfortunately. For Panem’s protection, I cannot. However, a short reunion will do some good to lift spirits. Don’t you think?”

“Of course.” Derek stared hard into the black of his glasses.

“In a week or two, we are holding the end of the victor’s tour. A celebration for your bravery and commitment to our nation. You and Mr. Stilinski will come to the capitol without the traditional stops at the districts. But I expect a speech to be ready for each individual district that will broadcast safety from the capitol.”

“Of course,” Derek muttered in the pause.

“I expect the best behavior from _both_ of you. I will not lie to you; Mr. Hale, you and Mr. Stilinski have sparked a reaction I had not expected from the districts. Rest a sure it is being handled,” All smiles were gone and Deucalion was lighting a boil under Derek’s skin, “but the public needs to be shown, that your…actions where purely out of love. Now, I don’t doubt that whatever bond happened between you and Mr. Stilinski is real, but it needs to be made clear. There is no alternative motive. While you both put on an exciting games last year, we need to make sure it stays that way, a game.”

 _Fuck._ Derek’s shirt was dripping in the back and if he unlinked his hands, he’d be shaking. Of course he loved Stiles, or at least something close to it. But the both of them have been too vocal about their active dislike for the Capitol.

“Don’t look so down, Mr. Hale. You’ve already done the work. And while the truth is actually real in this relationship, it is so far, not enough to over shadow other actions the two of you have taken. All I need from you is an exaggeration. Bring the focus back on you two and your connection while I deal with these unfortunate events. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” it comes out in a rush and Derek just wants him to get out. Get away from here and his family.

“Can both of you, Mr. Hale?” President Deucalion places a holo-pad down onto the desk, “I have little doubt. Panem today, Mr. Hale, Panem tomorrow,-”

“-Panem forever.” Derek whispers. He’s barely holding back now. President Deucalion smiles and walks out with a pat to his shoulder. Derek nearly retches.

He stands there in the diming light of early evening, shaking in fear, in anger, in exhaustion. He hears a few kind words exchanged with his mother and then the door closes and the President is gone. Derek wants to burn the room though. The whispers of rebellion is more than true then. So much that without someone to help stamp the flames out, could consume the capitol.

_“Fuck.”_

It doesn’t make him feel better. Derek takes a breath and reaches for the holo pad. There’s a loaded video and he already knows what is on it before he hits play. The sound is muted, and the hologram takes away some vibrancy of color. But there in front of him, filmed not even a week ago is District Twelve. It’s so ashen and broken. There are loads of peacekeepers patrolling the streets. As he watches, a few figures sneak behind them, spray paint something on walls and even hiss at them when they are finished. They get shot at, but none of them falls. The camera cuts to different scenes of the district, all sadder then the last. And the last scene, the city center, there are bodies on the ground, bleeding, and Stiles. Stiles is there screaming and waving what looks like a bat, with a few others behind him.

“No, you _idiot_.”

Derek can barely watch as shots are fired toward Stiles. He doesn’t go down, but when the peacekeepers reach him, the start beating him hard. The video cuts when Stiles falls to the ground under a mass of beat sticks and white uniforms.

There’s a second of static and then President Deucalion pops up.

“Mr. Hale, I hope you can help Mr. Stilinski learn some proper behavior. I also hope you think hard about continuing your free time activities, as it could be seen as an act against the Capitol. We are not at war and Panem does not wish to start one. Loyalty, Mr. Hale, is key.”

And then nothing.

Derek wants to throw up. But there’s nothing. He can barely think past the blinding fear for Stiles and for what will happen if they can’t over shadow the rebellions happening.

**

He hardly ate at dinner and Laura keeps knocking on his door. He keeps ignoring it. The landline phone is heavy in his hand. He’s already tried three times and the heavy long tone is still echoing from the speaker. Doesn’t stop him from trying again. Maybe this time. Maybe this time…

It’s stupid he knows. But it helps ease the weight on his chest.

Just one more time.

Laura knocks on his door.

 _One_ more.

“Derek!”

One…

_“Derek!”_

Just…

Pounding.

…..

**

The first snowfall hits when he gets the message.

He’s just getting back from his run, the sun not even peeking out from the horizon. He can’t do any type of training during the day. It’s too easy to be spotted and reported. With Stiles taking all the stupidity, Derek has to follow Deucalion’s orders directly, or life for everyone will get a lot worse. He doesn’t even do his core work outs or weights at home. The day after the holiday, Derek and hidden some weights in the woods, opting to hide away. Even though it’s only been a week, it’s obvious that Derek hasn’t been letting up on his work out regime. But if Deucalion doesn’t have him on film, he can’t do anything about it.

Everyone is still asleep, so he moves quietly through the house, patting down his sweat with a towel and shredding his clothes. He takes a fast shower in the farthest bathroom in the house, to keep down the noise. The pipes freeze easy, even in the victor’s houses.

It’s sitting on his pillow when he sneaks back to his room. Nearly gives him a panic attack, but after the realization that his mother put it there, he’s left with a flushed embarrassed face. She made his bed, the comforter folded a quarter down and the pillows fluffed. Deucalion wouldn’t be so sneaky either.

It’s just a small envelope, with **Mr. Hale** written on the front in curly letters. Inside, just a small slip of paper.

**Monday, January 5th.**

**Please proceed to the train station at the slotted time: 5 o’clock pm.**

It smelled faintly, some kind of floral.

He probably should feel threatened or some kind of never ending doom, just as he has for the past year. But none of that comes. There’s just warmth of excitement. Stiles. He’s gunna see Stiles in two days.

He dresses lazily, the weekend just starting, and debates shaving. He won’t, it’ll just grow back by Monday anyway, so he’ll wait to look his _proper_ best.

The sky is pink with the coming sun and someone is rutting around in the kitchen downstairs. It sounds like Cora, with bangs and crashes that loud. Their mother can make a whole meal without waking someone in the room over. He might as well go down and help, keep his mind busy. His fingers twitch towards his phone as he leaves.

There’s loud whispering filling the hall and he can’t keep a snort in at Laura sitting on the high stool, crunching loudly on an apple with her hair in a messy bun and ordering Cora around.

“No, no. Mom always starts with the _meat_ first.”

“Then why don’t you go wake her up and get her in here.” Cora snips, glaring at the defrosting bacon on the counter. She’s always hated touching raw meat.

“Der!” Laura chirps at him, ignoring Cora’s heated glare, “wanna cook breakfast with us?”

“Who’s this _‘us’_ , you’re talking about?”

“Hush, and get going. Mom shouldn’t have to do all the work all the time.”

Derek grabs the iron from Cora before she hurls it at Laura. Cora’s famed rage doesn’t stop him from chuckling at her though. It doesn’t stop Laura’s cackling either.

“Why are we up so early?” he asks and sets about taking the bacon out and slipping the thick strips on the iron.

“Excuse you, I am always up early.” Laura says through her apple. Derek gives her his best bullshit face right along with Cora, “what, I’m always up early on shift days.”

“Yeah, the rest, you sleep in till noon.”

“ _Anyway_ , we thought we’d help mom out. She’s been a little stressed out.”

Derek snorts. No shit, everyone’s been a little stressed out. Their Dad has been taking extra shifts, Nate’s been gone more often than not and Jacob wakes up every other night screaming. Derek does too, but he’s managed to muffle his own night terrors and just tough them out with fake Stiles shushing them away in his head.

The slightly awkward lull is a good time as any, and Derek rather not break his parting date to his whole family at once.

“President Deucalion’s decided to have the victor’s tour ending party.”

Laura winces, Cora goes still, “Mom told us.”

Derek swallows the sudden lump in his throat, “I leave Monday night.”

“That’s so soon!” they both nearly shout at him.

“Yeah.”

The silence is too loud. Derek turns on an extra burner.

“At least you’ll get to see Stiles.” Laura finally says.

And possible send the whole country into a war, but he bites his lip and nods with the best fake smile he can.

“Yeah.”

“So,” Cora looks between them, “blueberry pancakes, or strawberry?”

“Blueberry-”

“Strawberry-”

Laura smirks, slamming her elbow down on the table, “wrestle ya.”

He wins, of course. His arms are nearly bigger than her head. But the kitchen stays filled with laughter longer than it has in days.

**

There’s no laughter on Monday. Everyone hangs around the house, hangs around Derek a little too much. Even Peter, who has been absent for the last couple of months. Every time he showed up for dinner though, he looked bigger and stronger. Now, Peter’s almost as big as Derek. It doesn’t bring any reassurance though, not for Derek. All he wonders is if Deucalion will count this as Derek’s fault.

He plays card games with Laura and Cora for most of the day, Jacob a small heat at his side. And Nate comes around for an early dinner. It flies by fast and he’s standing under a hot spray of water before he realizes. He feels his added muscle in the small space of the shower, uncomfortable in it. The steam is thick in the bathroom, making his lungs contract. He can hear his family’s loud laughter through the halls and the thick wooden door. It’s not a sad parting. They know he’s coming back. He knows that. It’ll only be for a few days.

It’s what happens after. What no one knows. What happens at the capitol.

He scrubs clean twice, harder the second time so his skin is blotchy and red. Washes his hair twice, even steals some of Laura’s conditioner to get the tangles out easier. He’d let it grow and he doesn’t have time to cut it now. Keeping a towel around his waist, he wipes off the mirror and stares a little too long. His beard has gotten a little too shaggy. It’ll take a bit longer then trimming it, which he doesn’t have time for either. He suds up with shaving cream and goes as fast as he can. When he’s done, his face still burns a bit, even after a few washes with cold water. He looks younger, his age even, without his beard. There’s no sunken in skin on his face, even with the food shortage, he’s still healthy and strong looking.

There’s a knock on the front door, faint, but he hears it. Time to go. He steals a bit of hair gel from his Father and runs it through his long hair, sweeping it back from his face in gentle waves. He dresses nicely, black slacks and a simple button up shirt, dark green, the one that his Mom always says matches his eyes. It’s tight now, maybe just a little too much, but there’s no point in shopping for new clothes.

Besides, his stylist team will just give him all new outfits anyway, once he’s in the capitol.

There are four peacekeepers at the front door, as well as his district representative. They usher him out of the house after a few short goodbyes. There are camera’s flashing in his eyes the whole way to the station. It’s annoying and terrifying to hear speculation from the camera crew about his new physique. He’s asked about it too. But he’s got an audience now and he easily falls back on his silent and broody side. He’s all glares and tight lips the whole way to the train.

It doesn’t go unnoticed that Peter isn’t going with him. It’s odd, that the mentors are staying behind. Because if Peter is, Derek has no doubt that Stiles’s is as well.

There’s a small crowd at the train station. But Derek can see the sunken eyes and thin arms on everyone. They should hate him. He begs them too, even snarls at a few that get in the way. Deucalion will be happy about that. Seem snobbish, above the lesser people. Give them more of a reason to not side with him or Stiles.

There’s no hate for him in any of their eyes though, just the annoying helplessness of hope. Or worse yet, the pity. There's too much pity.

He gets a rough shove into the station. When the cameras don’t follow him, he looks to the district representative. She shakes her head slightly and nudges him on. He doesn’t get it. The whole point of this is to show off his and Stiles relationship. Showing the reunion would be a perfect chance to convince people.

The train is already pulled up at the station and he goes through the turn-gate alone. It’s cold, no heat in the station and the train creaks in the wind that’s starting to pick up. Jittery with nerves and confusion, he steps up and on the train. The door closes behind him with a whoosh and then silence.

The lighting is dim in the car, one of the many dinning cars. Food is spread out already, and the heater is on, a pleasant warmth. The strong scent of leather and polished wood mingles with the food. It makes his stomach rumble and lurch with the train as it starts to pull out of the station. The car is empty.

He makes his way in. It’s different from the train last year, but the same as well. Little details stick out too him, like the modeling and the wood finish. He’s half way through the car, when a door slides open. _He’s_ stopped in the door way, under the shadows, _Stiles_. Obviously, who else would be on the train, but just from the way he holds his body. It’s really Stiles. Not the fake one he’s been talking to all year.

“Hey Seven.”

Derek’s jaw ticks and he’s fighting a smile, losing actually.

“Stiles.” He’s only a few steps from him.

Stiles doesn’t wait for him either, steps out into the dim lighting and Derek can’t believe how beau-

“Oh my- _fuck._ _Stiles_.”

The laugh sounds painful from him and his smile can’t even widen across his cracked and bruised face. He’s so thin, cheek bones too sharp. Clothes that fit him last year, barely hanging on now. The more Derek stares, the worse Stiles looks.

No wonder the camera crew didn’t follow him in.

Can’t show the world the face in front of him. Too bruised to even smile. Too rebellious to show.

Derek’s lungs tighten up and he can’t move anymore.

He can't.

 

_____

Thanks again guys! Bare with me on the slow start, the action will start soon, I promise. Haha.


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